The Chain of Destiny - Bram Stoker (the little red hen read aloud .TXT) 📗
- Author: Bram Stoker
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village, composed of very respectable men, sir—very respectable
men, indeed—and they asked me to be their chairman. I spoke to the
master about it, and he gave me leave to accept their proposal.
I accepted it as they made a point of it; and from my position I
have of course a fine opportunity of making inquiries. It was at
the club, sir, that I was, last night, so that I was not here to
attend on you, which I hope that you will excuse.”
Parks’s air of mingled pride and condescension, as he made
the announcement of the club, was very fine, and the effect was
heightened by the confiding frankness with which he spoke. I
asked him if he could find no clue to any of the legends which
must have existed about such an old place. He answered with a
very slight reluctance—
“Well, sir, there was one woman in the village who was
awfully old and doting, and she evidently knew something about
Scarp, for when she heard the name she mumbled out something
about ‘awful stories,’ and ‘times of horror,’ and such like
things, but I couldn’t make her understand what it was I wanted
to know, or keep her up to the point.”
“And have you tried often, Parks? Why do you not try again?”
“She is dead, sir!”
I had felt inclined to laugh at Parks when he was telling me
of the old woman. The way in which he gloated over the words
“awful stories,” and “times of horror,” was beyond the power of
description; it should have been heard and seen to have been
properly appreciated. His voice became deep and mysterious, and
he almost smacked his lips at the thought of so much pabulum for
nightmares. But when he calmly told me that the woman was dead,
a sense of blankness, mingled with awe, came upon me. Here, the
last link between myself and the mysterious past was broken,
never to be mended. All the rich stores of legend and tradition
that had arisen from strange conjunctures of circumstances, and
from the belief and imagination of long lines of villagers, loyal
to their suzerain lord, were lost forever. I felt quite sad and
disappointed; and no attempt was made either by Parks or myself
to continue the conversation. Mr. Trevor came presently into my
room, and having greeted each other warmly we went together to
breakfast.
At breakfast Mrs. Trevor asked me what I thought of the
girl’s portrait in my bedroom. We had often had discussions as
to characters in faces for we were both physiognomists, and she
asked the question as if she were really curious to hear my
opinion. I told her that I had only seen it for a short time,
and so would rather not attempt to give a final opinion without
a more careful study; but from what I had seen of it I had been
favourably impressed.
“Well, Frank, after breakfast go and look at it again carefully,
and then tell me exactly what you think about it.”
After breakfast I did as directed and returned to the breakfast
room, where Mrs. Trevor was still sitting.
“Well, Frank, what is your opinion—mind, correctly. I want it
for a particular reason.”
I told her what I thought of the girl’s character; which, if
there be any truth in physiognomy, must have been a very fine one.
“Then you like the face?”
I answered—
“It is a great pity that we have none such now-a-days. They
seem to have died out with Sir Joshua and Greuze. If I could meet
such a girl as I believe the prototype of that portrait to have
been I would never be happy till I had made her my wife.”
To my intense astonishment my hostess jumped up and clapped her
hands. I asked her why she did it, and she laughed as she replied
in a mocking tone imitating my own voice—
“But suppose for a moment that your kind intentions should be
frustrated. ‘One man may lead a horse to the pond’s brink.’ ‘The
best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men.’ Eh?”
“Well,” said I, “there may be some point in the observation.
I suppose there must be since you have made it. But for my part I
don’t see it.”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you, Frank, that that portrait might have
been painted for Diana Fothering.”
I felt a blush stealing over my face. She observed it and took
my hand between hers as we sat down on the sofa, and said to me
tenderly—
“Frank, my dear boy, I intend to jest with you no more on the
subject. I have a conviction that you will like Diana, which has
been strengthened by your admiration for her portrait, and from
what I know of human nature I am sure that she will like you.
Charley and I both wish to see you married, and we would not think
of a wife for you who was not in every way eligible. I have never
in my life met a girl like Di; and if you and she fancy each other
it will be Charley’s pleasure and my own to enable you to marry—as
far as means are concerned. Now, don’t speak. You must know
perfectly well how much we both love you. We have always regarded
you as our son, and we intend to treat you as our only child when
it pleases God to separate us. There now, think the matter over,
after you have seen Diana. But, mind me, unless you love each other
well and truly, we would far rather not see you married. At all
events, whatever may happen you have our best wishes and prayers
for your happiness. God bless you, Frank, my dear, dear boy.”
There were tears in her eyes as she spoke. When she had finished
she leaned over, drew down my head and kissed my forehead very, very
tenderly, and then got up softly and left the room. I felt inclined
to cry myself. Her words to me were tender, and sensible, and
womanly, but I cannot attempt to describe the infinite tenderness
and gentleness of her voice and manner. I prayed for every blessing
on her in my secret heart, and the swelling of my throat did not
prevent my prayers finding voice. There may have been women in the
world like Mrs. Trevor, but if there had been I had never met any
of them, except herself.
As may be imagined, I was most anxious to see Miss Fothering, and
or the remainder of the day she was constantly in my thoughts. That
evening a letter came from the younger Miss Fothering apologising
for her not being able to keep her promise with reference to her
visit, on account of the unexpected arrival of her aunt, with whom
she was obliged to go to Paris for some months. That night I slept
in my new room, and had neither dream nor vision. I awoke in the
morning half ashamed of having ever paid any attention to such a
silly circumstance as a strange dream in my first night in an old
house.
After breakfast next morning, as I was going along the corridor,
I saw the door of my old bedroom open, and went in to have another
look at the portrait. Whilst I was looking at it I began to wonder
how it could be that it was so like Miss Fothering as Mrs. Trevor
said it was. The more I thought of this the more it puzzled me,
till suddenly the dream came back—the face in the picture, and the
figure in the bed, the phantoms out in the night, and the ominous
words—“The fairest and the best.” As I thought of these things all
the possibilities of the lost legends of the old house thronged so
quickly into my mind that I began to feel a buzzing in my ears and
my head began to swim, so that I was obliged to sit down.
“Could it be possible,” I asked myself, “that some old curse
hangs over the race that once dwelt within these walls, and can
she be of that race? Such things have been before now!”
The idea was a terrible one for me, for it made to me a
reality that which I had come to look upon as merely the dream
of a distempered imagination. If the thought had come to me in
the darkness and stillness of the night it would have been awful.
How happy I was that it had come by daylight, when the sun was
shining brightly, and the air was cheerful with the trilling of
the song birds, and the lively, strident cawing from the old
rookery.
I stayed in the room for some little time longer, thinking over
the scene, and, as is natural, when I had got over the remnants of
my fear, my reason began to question the genuineness of the dream.
I began to look for the internal evidence of the
untruth to facts; but, after thinking earnestly for some time the
only fact that seemed to me of any importance was the confirmatory
one of the younger Miss Fothering’s apology. In the dream the
frightened girl had been alone, and the mere fact of two girls
coming on a visit had seemed a sort of disproof of its truth. But,
just as if things were conspiring to force on the truth of the
dream, one of the sisters was not to come, and the other was she
who resembled the portrait whose prototype I had seen sleeping in
a vision. I could hardly imagine that I had only dreamt.
I determined to ask Mrs. Trevor if she could explain in any way
Miss Fothering’s resemblance to the portrait, and so went at once
to seek her.
I found her in the large drawingroom alone, and, after a few
casual remarks, I broached the subject on which I had come to
seek for information. She had not said anything further to me
about marrying since our conversation on the previous day, but
when I mentioned Miss Fothering’s name I could see a glad look
on her face which gave me great pleasure. She made none of those
vulgar commonplace remarks which many women find it necessary to
make when talking to a man about a girl for whom he is supposed
to have an affection, but by her manner she put me entirely at my
ease, as I sat fidgeting on the sofa, pulling purposelessly the
woolly tufts of an antimacassar, painfully conscious that my
cheeks were red, and my voice slightly forced and unnatural.
She merely said, “Of course, Frank, I am ready if you want
to talk about Miss Fothering, or any other subject.” She then put
a marker in her book and laid it aside, and, folding her arms,
looked at me with a grave, kind, expectant smile.
I asked her if she knew anything about the family history of
Miss Fothering. She answered—
“Not further than I have already told you. Her father’s is a
fine old family, although reduced in circumstances.”
“Has it ever been connected with any family in this county?
With the former owners of Scarp, for instance?”
“Not that I know of. Why do you ask?”
“I want to find out how she comes to be so like that portrait.”
“I never thought of that. It may be that there was some remote
connection between her family and the Kirks who formerly owned
Scarp. I will ask her when she comes. Or stay. Let us go and look
if there
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